Now When the Rain Falls
by jenelin
Summary: A girl comes to visit her brother in Paris, but it may be too late.


# Now When the Rain Falls

## By jenelin

I don't own _Misérables_. Pity. Any students who may appear in this story originated in the mind of M. Hugo, as did any young women named Musichetta. Any young women named Marguerite, however, are solely the property of me. The title and opening quote come from a song on the _Scarlet Pimpernel_ concept recording. Feedback is, of course, always appreciated. For more of my _Les Miz_ fanfic, please visit [my site][1].

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**I don't want to cry when I think of you**

But now when the rain falls I do

  
  
It had been two weeks since I had received his letter. It was not a strange occurrence to get a letter from my brother for he sent one every week, but this one was different. "Come to Paris, my darling Marguerite," he said. 

It had been three years since my brother left for Paris. I had been only fourteen and was devastated when my beloved Adrien told me that he was going. I pleaded, but to no avail. "It is for the best. When I have saved enough money, I will send for you and we will live happily in Paris." I could do nothing to stop him. 

Adrien had taught himself to read and write, and then taught me, and I was able to find a job taking letters for a wealthy woman in our town. It did not pay particularly well, but not being used to luxury, I was able to get by. And so life went on. I did what I could to survive and waited expectantly for the weekly letter from my brother. Every week I would receive a fat letter filled with news of his doings in Paris and, as time passed, his involvement in a revolutionary group. But never was there a word mentioned of my joining him. 

"Come to Paris, my darling Marguerite." 

It was winter. Snow was on the ground and travel would not be easy. "I will come in the spring," I wrote. 

Spring came and my employer found extra work for me. Thankful for the money, I once again put off journeying to Paris. I missed Adrien immensely, but he would understand. "I will come next month." 

A month passed. Adrien's letters implored me to come. "Marguerite, there are beautiful flowers blooming outside my window. Come so that you can enjoy them." 

"I have flowers of my own," I replied, "for I have found myself the loveliest young man who brings me a bouquet each morning. But he must leave me in a month's time, and I will come then." 

Another month passed, and my young man left. I had foolishly spent the majority of my money on some gowns for the parties that my flower-bearing friend and I had attended. I knew that I could not afford them, but was too in love to care. Again, I wrote to my brother. "Dearest of dear Adriens, I long to join you. But until I have more money, I cannot. I will work harder than I ever have until I can see you again." 

"Come to Paris, my darling Marguerite." 

@>-----'------,-------

It was June. My employer had passed away, and I was forced to take a factory job, which paid considerably less. But I had finally earned enough to allow me to leave, and I arrived in Paris in the best of spirits. 

"Excuse me," I inquired of a kind-looking woman, asking her where I might find the street that my brother lived on. She pointed me in a direction, and I continued my journey. I found myself in front of a rather run-down house. One of the tenants came out the door as I went in. "I am looking for my brother, Adrien..." 

"He's not here," interrupted the man. "Went out yesterday morning and hasn't been back since." 

"Do you know where he went?" I asked. 

"Fool went to the barricades. More than likely dead by now." He noticed the look of shock on my face. "Sorry, miss." 

Adrien could not be dead. I knew it. He was my brother and the only family I had. He had to be somewhere in Paris, and I would find him. 

The rain started to fall as I wandered through the streets. I had never been to Paris and was lost in no time. Soon I was soaked to the skin, but still I continued to blindly walk. I went through neighborhoods where wealthy families laughed in their warm homes, oblivious to the pouring rain and the deathly silence that hung over the city. I came to remnants of barricades where grieving women dug through bodies to find their loved ones. Every so often a mourning wail would break through that black silence. National Guards were beginning to throw the dead into large piles. Rainwater was running through the streets, bringing with it blood from those killed. I was horrified, but did not stop searching. I did not want to think my brother dead, but the thought was slowly filling my head. 

I do now know how long I wandered. The sky grew darker and the rain came down harder, stinging my face. I was about to seek some lodging and resume my search in the morning when I came to the remains of another barricade. The now familiar pile of lifeless bodies greeted me. A solitary woman was kneeling over the body of a young man, weeping. I silently began to search through the pile. Moving aside someone's arm, I found myself staring into the face of a girl younger than myself. She was dirty and her hair was soaked with blood, but the slightest smile was on her face. Fighting the urge to cry, I looked away from the child and up at the wall before me. Someone had scratched the words "Vivent les Peuples!" in the stone. I resumed my search. 

I did not want to find Adrien. If I did not find him among the dead, there was hope that he was alive. All my hopes were shattered when I pushed aside an angelic looking man and saw my brother's face. "Adrien," I whispered, the tears running down my face and mingling with the rain. I let out a cry and threw my arms around my poor brother. Some minutes or hours later I felt a hand on my shoulder. It was the woman who had been weeping upon my arrival. 

"Was he your lover?" she asked. 

"No. Far more precious to me than any lover...he was my brother...my only family in the world." 

The woman pointed to the young man on the ground. "He was my lover. Laurent-Michel Joly." She again began to weep. "I didn't think he would really die here...I didn't know." 

"Neither did I." 

She had composed herself some. "What was your brother's name? He seems familiar - he was perhaps one of my Laurent's friends." 

"Adrien...Adrien Feuilly." 

"Yes...the fan-maker. I'm sorry." She embraced me comfortingly, and with one last look at her Laurent, she disappeared into the darkness. I was left alone, the only sound at the deserted barricade that of the rain hitting the paving stones. 

I had been too late. Adrien had implored me to come, but I had put it off, thinking that he would always be there. Now I was alone in Paris, my brother killed fighting for something that I was not sure I understood. "Vivent les Peuples!" Whoever had written those words was now surely dead. It did not seem fair. 

Adrien's dark hair was soaked from the rain. I brushed it off his face, amazed at how peaceful his expression was. I suddenly spied something white peeking out from his bloodstained vest. It was a letter - a letter on which he had hurriedly scrawled, "Please deliver to Mademoiselle Marguerite Feuilly" and my address. It was dated two days earlier. I sat on the dirty ground to read it and cried more with every word. 

"Dearest Marguerite - I am writing in hopes that you have not yet left for Paris. The fires of revolution could erupt at any moment, and I do not want you here when that happens. We have been anticipating this day for some time, and it seems that the day we have been waiting for is here. You would endanger your life if you joined me here now. I haven't much time to write for even now it is whispered that the time for us to take action is here. But if by chance I never see you again, little sister, know that I love you more than I can say and..." 

The rain had made the ink run and I could read no more save one line in the middle of the page... 

"Do not come to Paris, my darling Marguerite." 

**Fin**

*A little note on "Vivent les Peuples!"... 

_Feuilly used these two hours to engrave this inscription on the wall facing the wineshop: _

"Vivent les Peuples!"

The three words, graven in the stone with a nail, were still legible on that wall in 1848. (Victor Hugo, Les Misérables)

   [1]: http://www.crosswinds.net/~barricade



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